


30 Something

by PureAU



Series: Pavellan Drabbles [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Dalish Accent, Elvish, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal, M/M, Ouch, Post Trespasser, Tevene, Tevinter Imperium, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureAU/pseuds/PureAU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but one day he realized he hadn’t aged in a very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Something

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the shortest thing I am capable of writing. This is time for a celebration. I've finally done it, after years of writing fanfiction, I, the great and powerful master of AU's and anything noncanon compliant, have written a drabble.
> 
> As a reverance for what Draíocht is wearing [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/252623860325520810/) or even [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/403353710346621134/) imagine whichever one you like best.

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but one day he realized he hadn’t aged in a very long time. Dorian had frown lines and crow's feet, strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, complained about joint pain in his wrists due to casting. Generally had the characteristics of someone well into their forties. Draíocht did not.

 

Somehow, for some reason, his ivory skin stayed unmarred save for the deep scars running jagged across his face; the bounce in his step stayed bouncy, his joints stayed supple. For all intents and purposes he was still a 27 year old elf despite more than ten years having passed since the fateful day he stepped out of the fade and into a life of shem chaos.

 

A pretty black and gold trimmed hood effectively covered his long, sharply pointed ears and wispy, ashen vallaslin as he wandered Three Imperators' Square. The gold jewlery decorating his slim fingers and the Pavus birthright dangling from his neck alleviated some of the tension of being an elf in a society that would enslave him for that fact. He navigated expertly from stall to stall utilizing the little Tevene he knew and a well practice false accent to run his and Dorian’s errands as he thought about the time that passed, but his age that seemingly stayed the same. No amount of pondering solved the inquiry and he eventually dropped the subject.

 

That is until he returned to the Pavus city house near the center of Minrathous. He watched the Argent Spire come nearer then disappear again behind dark pointed buildings and allowed the whispers of magic that flowed freely around the people and air to caress his skin. Listened carefully to the heedings of spirits that reached out to him through his connection to the well to keep himself safe. Waved kindly to dark skinned children in belted robes glittering with intricate designs akin to his own dress.

 

“Avanna? Ma’arlath are you home?” Draíocht called as he removed the flowing cowl that was making his long ash brown hair stick to his nape careful of the delicate chains that decorated his ears and the talon that rested securely on his middle finger. He quickly tied half of his thick locks up as he scoured the house for his lover. “Dorian?”

 

Finally a quiet affirmation brought him to the slightly messy parlor room where the found man laid in an uncomfortable position in a ridiculously high backed chair that Draíocht had never cared for and wanted to get rid of. His hair, just passed his shoulders and in need of a decent trim, was flipped in what may have been a grimy bun over his undercut had he actually put any work into it. The gold makeup that had been perfectly painted over his lids just the day before was smeared down his face. The chain connecting his pierced ear to his eyebrow was tangled in a way that must have been causing him pain in his sleep.

 

“Aneth ara, amatus,” the slightly butchered accent and incorrectly stressed vowels brought a smile to Draíocht’s face. A smile, he thought, that may not leave deep creases made more prominent by old age. Dorian kissed him softly; the lingering taste of brandy and whatever pastry he had gobbled up before going to sleep made him sag against the taller man. Suddenly his worries seemed so miniscule as though being around Dorian beat up all the anxiety that was ready to spill from his lips and leak from his pores never to be seen again. “You’re back in one piece! Just like every time you leave the house. You’re like a disobedient house cat, you know? You’re to _stay_ and let me say this slowly _put_.”

 

Dorian went through the motions of the same speech he gave each time Draíocht returned to the town house. As he pretended to listen and sat in one of the more comfortable ridiculously high backed chairs he set to braiding his hair in the tedious patterns that he loved so much. It was too risky to wear them while milling about the crowds when he tested the wind and passersby enough to simply wear a hood and not a veil. He let Dorian get as far into the spiel as he deemed necessary before finally interrupting.

 

“Dorian, I do not think I am aging,” he blurt out pausing his work on the tight braids that would curve behind his ear.

 

Dorian paused to pull a face before sweeping over to his amatus’s side to finish the job of braiding, “I just thought that was an elf thing, being pretty forever.” Despite the compliment Draíocht felt the hard cut of every constinent like it was a slap. Could imagine the drawn look on his vhenan’s face. He quickly replied that he knew that wasn’t correct. “Then I thought it was a _you_ thing, Dré, or I hadn’t given it much thought at all.” That was a lie; Dorian gazed upon his young face often and each year it became more distressed.

 

“Do you think- Could it have been,” Draíocht’s heavy Dalish accent twisted his words, “Fenedhis Vir'abelasan?” The broken Elvish and harsh breathing brought Dorian to his knees before the elf.

 

“I don’t know, amatus. I don’t, but we’ll figure it out, alright? We alway do. You always do,” Dorian kissed each knuckle of his right hand before his lover tangled his long fingers in hair that desperately needed to be washed.

 

Draíocht studied the man before him. Really looked at the skin on his top eyelid that was beginning to hood and the slight prominence of his jowls. The world _shemlen_ hit him full force with a new meaning. A meaning that no longer included him as Abelas once had, but one that certainly included Dorian.

  
He nodded as if to acknowledge the words Dorian was speaking, but were falling on deaf ears. As if to acknowledge that he was truly the creature elvhen were always meant to be and that was a little bit sad. Even when there was a whole life he could live on the other side; he couldn’t live it with Dorian.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you were wondering, this is what I used to envision his everyday [hair](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/557179785130460742/) and the [hair](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/10344274122189451/) I mention him doing here. I picture the second one as his getting down to business hairstyle to get it out of his face while the first one may have many variations, but it's just something he does so it isn't all up on him.
> 
> I did a lot of headcanoning for my inquizzy recently, but I don't think the no aging thing applies to poor Dré I just like the concept. But if you want to know what I DO think about my dear elf baby msg me on [tumblr](https://www.allodoxia.tumblr.com/)


End file.
